Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  “Why wouldn't you apologize?”

  “Because I'm not a bit sorry I hit him. I'm just sorry my company is in trouble for it.”

  “So why don't you—”

  “I just don't...” He shifted uncomfortably as he tried to picture himself telling that abusive bastard that he was sorry. “I don't think I can.”

  She studied him for a long moment. “I see.”

  “I mean, what was I gonna do? Just watch that girl cry while he kept shouting at her, saying things to her that a man should never say to a woman in private, let alone in public? And it's not in my nature to get hit without hitting back. If he wasn't willing to fight, he shouldn't have taken the first swing.” He ground out his cigarette in his coffee cup. “So I told Joe I couldn't apologize. And that's when your father called him, looking for someone to keep you safe in Montedora.”

  “Out of sight out of mind? Or did Mr. Marino hope that a week or so in Montedora would make you come to your senses?”

  Ransom grinned wryly. “I think he figured I'd be willing to walk on my knees through broken glass after a second trip to Montedora.”

  “You hated it that much?”

  “I was ... notoriously bad-tempered after I came back from Montedora,” he said slowly. He watched her cheeks suffuse with color.

  “Oh.”

  “Joe figured something down there just didn't agree with me.”

  Something in her eyes made his chest ache. She didn't look away, and he could tell that she wanted to. She spoke at last, so softly he could scarcely hear her: “I'm sorry.”

  He studied the embarrassed, regretful expression on her face and, strangely enough, he believed her. He just didn't know what to make of it. “Then—”

  The intercom overhead announced that their flight was beginning to board. Madeleine slid quickly out of her seat, picked up her belongings, and murmured, “See you after we land.”

  He watched her walk away, wondering what he had started to say to her anyhow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Madeleine was assaulted by a wave of hot, humid air the moment she emerged from the half-empty airplane in Montedora. Beneath the blistering sun, she crossed the cracked pavement to the airport building along with the rest of the passengers, most of whom appeared to be Montedorans. Ransom caught up with her as she reached immigration.

  “Su pasaporte, por favor.”

  Ransom took Madeleine's passport and handed it, along with his own, to the stout, stern-faced immigration official.

  “Viaje de negocios o de vacaciones?” Business trip or vacation?

  “Negocios,” Ransom replied.

  An ordinary, well-dressed, and law abiding person, Madeleine had been questioned for ten minutes at immigration the last time she had come to Montedora. Her minimal Spanish had, of course, made the process rather slow. Most of that ten minutes, however, had been taken up by armed men flipping through her perfectly ordinary passport, asking her exactly the same questions she'd already been asked, and then staring at her as if she might suddenly break down and admit to being a terrorist on the run. She was prepared to endure the same treatment again, but Ransom surprised her by pulling out several documents and saying, with uncharacteristic arrogance, “We're guests of President Veracruz, who assured me personally that we would be treated courteously.”

  The stern-faced official blinked in surprise, took the papers, and showed them to a curious bystander who was apparently his immediate superior. That man, in turn, showed them to someone else.

  “What are those papers?” Madeleine asked Ransom.

  “A letter of introduction from Veracruz, a personal commendation from Veracruz, and special permits for my guns, signed by—”

  “Veracruz.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Thirty seconds later, Ransom and Madeleine were offered a personal escort into the main building, to the baggage claim area, and through customs. Whereas Madeleine's harmless toiletries bag had been subjected to a thorough search the last time she'd passed through Montedoran customs, Ransom's guns were now regarded as casually as if they'd been old shoes. It sure paid to have friends in high places.

  “Senor, can you show me into a private room for a moment?” Ransom asked their escort, after clearing customs.

  “Of course.”

  “And somewhere where I could freshen up?” Madeleine added.

  Ransom ran his gaze over her. “Why? After more than four thousand miles, you haven't even wrinkled your linen skirt yet.” He sounded annoyed.

  “I have to go to the bathroom. Is that all right with you?”

  Their chubby escort grinned and said, “Lover's quarrel,” in heavily accented English.

  Madeleine gave him a look that quelled his grin. “You couldn't be more wrong.”

  As she turned away, she heard Ransom murmur, “Oh, yes, he could.”

  Her face flushed as she remembered that, in the most technical sense of the word, they were lovers. Or had been. Once.

  When someone showed her into the filthy, odorous bathroom, she rinsed her handkerchief in cold water and pressed it to the back of her neck. The heat, the tension, the embarrassment; she felt a headache coming on.

  Ransom was waiting for her when she finally emerged from the bathroom. Their driver had found him and was already loading their luggage into the car outside. The airport, which hadn't improved any since her last visit, was particularly crowded today; the vast piles of luggage suggested that people were leaving for a long time, perhaps forever. The metallic whine of the overhead speakers jarred Madeleine's nerves. A short, fat lady nearly knocked her over. A child started wailing. Someone stepped on Madeleine's foot. The man who had done it looked her up and down, nudged the man next to him, nodded at Madeleine, and said something. His tone was suggestive. His friend's snicker sounded obscene. She didn't like the way either of them grinned at her, and her frosty expression let them know it.

  Ransom took her elbow, brushed past the two men, and kept hold of her as he guided her through the jostling throng. Something about his touch was reassuring, at a moment when she hadn't known she'd needed reassurance. Maybe he knew how much even a self-assured woman hated leers, snickers, muttered obscenities, and insolent grins. She maintained her dignity, but she was suddenly glad he was there.

  A white limousine awaited them just outside the building. Ransom introduced Madeleine to the uniformed chauffeur.

  “Miguel Arroyo. Madeleine Barrington. Miss Barrington is to be handled with care, Miguel.”

  The handsome young man grinned at her and took his hat off, bowing slightly. He had a wonderful smile, full of zest and energy. She found herself smiling back.

  “Ah, Ransom is worried about my driving,” Miguel told Madeleine. “But I have improved very much.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Ransom said dryly. “All the same, we'll both sit in back. With seatbelts on.”

  Replacing his cap, Miguel opened the door for Madeleine. “Ransom taught me everything I know.”

  “Don't try to blame your driving on me.”

  “No, I mean the evasive maneuvers, the anti-terrorist tactics, and the defensive procedures.”

  “Ah, I see,” Madeleine said, getting into the car.

  Ransom slipped in next to her. “Hopefully, we'll never have to find out if I was a good enough teacher.”

  “Ah, but you are very good!” Miguel assured him, leaning down to duck his head into the car. “You are—”

  “Let's get going, Miguel.” After Miguel closed the door on them, Ransom said mildly, “He's a nice kid, but he talks a lot.”

  “I like him.”

  “I can tell.” His voice was dry. “But we'd be here all day if someone didn't give him a shove.”

  “I see why you needed a private room back there,” Madeleine commented. Ransom's lightweight blazer had swung open when he climbed into the car, revealing the gun holstered at his side. The slender leather cases attached to his belt undoubtedly held loaded magazines for the gun. He ha
d chosen to arm himself before leaving the airport. She frowned. “Do you actually expect trouble between here and the Presidential Palace?”

  “It's my job to expect trouble from now until I drop you off at your apartment in New York.” The look he slanted her was slightly teasing. “If something happened during the drive, and I had left my guns in my suitcase in the trunk of this car, and you got hurt or killed as a result...” He sighed and shook his head. “It would just be so embarrassing. Looks bad on a guy's record, you know.”

  “I can imagine.” She glanced again at his gun. “You said ‘guns'?”

  He straightened one knee and pulled his khaki trouser leg up a few inches. As he did, she noticed a nondescript ring on his right hand. She'd never seen it before. It almost looked like a wedding ring. Then she looked down and saw a small, beautifully engraved revolver strapped to his ankle. “My back-up gun.”

  “Oh.” She gestured to the bigger gun at his side. “That one isn't very well hidden.”

  “Doesn't need to be for this assignment.” Seeing her blank look, he explained, “Some assignments call for discretion. The bodyguard is supposed to look like an assistant or colleague or companion; non-threatening. Or maybe he's just not supposed to call attention to himself.”

  “But this is different?”

  He looked her over. “Well, we're calling attention to ourselves just by being here. A blond, blue-eyed foreign woman and a man who's just as obviously foreign. Even without your tailored clothes and a good car, it would be assumed that we're wealthy. All foreigners are automatically considered wealthy here. So, since we aren't in a politically sensitive position, it makes sense to quietly but clearly display the fact that you're well-protected and that it would be really stupid for anyone to mess with you.”

  “An ounce of prevention?”

  “Right. It does a pretty good job of discouraging muggers, rapists, and burglars.”

  “What about rebels and terrorists?”

  “Hard to tell. Anytime someone has a cause, they're not as likely to be thinking of their own survival.”

  She thought about that. The breakdown of law and order in Montedora meant trouble could come from many sources. “How dangerous do you think it is for me to be here?”

  “I think it's more dangerous than you think it is, which is why...” He stopped speaking and looked oddly surprised.

  “What?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Oh ... Uh, why I think your father did the right thing, insisting you take me with you.” He seemed distracted and wouldn't quite meet her eyes.

  “I see.” She wanted to ask other questions—such as how dangerous he thought it was—but she didn't like to appear nervous or frightened. On the other hand, she didn't like to let her self-image get in the way of asking for relevant information, either. Still, she had been here by herself six months ago and encountered no danger or threats. Perhaps perceiving danger was simply Ransom's job, like always expecting trouble.

  She glanced at him when he leaned forward, slid open the glass partition, and asked Miguel, “Where are you going? This isn't the way to—”

  “Must detour, Ransom.”

  “Why?”

  “The direct route is closed.”

  Ransom frowned. “Why?”

  “Explosion.”

  “What?”

  “The LPM.”

  “What's that?” Madeleine asked.

  “In Spanish, it stands for the Popular Liberation of Montedora,” Ransom explained.

  “I've never heard of it,” she said.

  “It's a much smaller rebel group than the Doristas.”

  “But getting bigger,” Miguel grumbled.

  “They blew something up?” Ransom asked.

  “They were storing explosives in the back of a small shop along the road. The shop exploded two days ago.”

  “How do you know it was LPM?” Ransom asked.

  “Los Seguridores questioned the owner of the shop. He finally admitted that the LPM were planning to set a trap for El Presidente along that road.”

  Madeline knew that Los Seguridores were General Escalante's secret police, the most ruthless and powerful military entity in the country. She tried not to think about what the “questioning” had entailed.

  “LPM—those bastards!” Miguel shuddered. “I drive on that road almost every day! Explosions!”

  Madeleine nearly shuddered, too. How many people were hurt in the explosion? How many would have been hurt had the LPM carried out their plan to blow up the President's car as it drove by?

  “I wonder why this wasn't in the news,” she said aloud.

  “El Presidente wants to make it quiet.”

  “Keep it quiet,” Ransom corrected absently.

  “Yes. He doesn't want to encourage the LPM with publicity.”

  “Still, the international press—” Madeleine began.

  “They can't keep track of everything,” Ransom said. “Especially not if the Seguridores won't release any information and everybody in the neighborhood is too scared to talk.”

  “Yes, people are frightened,” Miguel confirmed. “Me, too, to be honest. Someone aiming at President Veracruz could miss and hit—”

  “Red light!” Ransom snapped.

  The limo screeched to a halt when they were halfway across the intersection. They blocked traffic for a few moments before Miguel, following Ransom's instructions, drove the car forward and continued on his way, accompanied by the blare of horns. Once clear of the intersection, Miguel tried to apologize, but Ransom forestalled him.

  “I should have known better than to distract you,” Ransom said, sounding resigned. “Keep your eyes on the road!” he ordered when Miguel turned to argue with him.

  Ransom closed the glass partition and sat back. “He took out someone's front porch last time I was here.”

  “Why is he a presidential chauffeur, then?”

  Ransom shrugged. “He doesn't drive any differently from most Montedorans. Anyhow, he speaks four languages and ... I'm pretty sure he's sleeping with the First Lady of Montedora. He's her driver, you see, more than Veracruz's.”

  “Ah.” Madeleine watched Ransom open the small refrigerator built into the car. She accepted a plastic glass and a small bottle of chilled mineral water from him. “Four languages, did you say?”

  He nodded. “Self-taught, for the most part. Miguel may be a lousy driver, but he's a bright, capable kid.”

  “Young man,” she corrected. Miguel looked about the same age as her sister Caroline. “And very charming.”

  “Too young for you,” he shot back.

  “That wasn't—”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She realized—with surprise—that he was teasing her, so she let it pass. “And in America or England or Canada, or a dozen other countries, he could have a bright future.”

  “But not many people in Montedora have bright futures,” Ransom concluded.

  “Why doesn't he emigrate?”

  “You say that like it's as easy as moving from uptown to downtown in Manhattan.”

  “I'd never live downtown.”

  “I live downtown!”

  “I guessed that about you.”

  He grinned. She was surprised to find that teasing him came pretty easily, too.

  “I assume Miguel has no money for emigration?” she said.

  “That's right. He's the sole support of his mother and two sisters. And this is his home.” He shrugged. “Would you find it that easy to turn your back on your homeland?”

  “I might, if it was Montedora,” she said truthfully. “And judging by the crowds at the airport, plenty of people do it.”

  He asked curiously, “And considering the situation here, why does anyone want to buy your ranch?”

  She sipped her water and said, “It's a farm, really, despite the name. A plantation, I guess. It's good land and I'm selling it cheap. Some people are gamblers. These buyers—these potential buyers—may be willing to bet that they can ma
ke it profitable enough to offset the time and effort they'll have to invest to increase its productivity.”

  “Not to mention the risk of losing it in another revolution.”

  “Do you think there's going to be another revolution here?”

  “I think it's a strong possibility. People are dangerous when they've got nothing left to lose.”

  “Nothing but their lives.”

  “There are more civilians than soldiers in Montedora.”

  “But how many guns do the civilians have?”

  “Probably a lot more than anyone realizes.” Not finding anything he liked, he closed the refrigerator and lit up a cigarette. “And if there is a revolution, whoever owns that ranch will probably lose it.”

  “For all I know, these buyers wouldn't mind losing it.”

  “A tax write-off?”

  “Possibly. It's not uncommon.” She shrugged. “My job is just to sell it.”

  “What'll you do if the Germans don't buy?”

  “I'll find another buyer.” She grimaced and added, “I hope.”

  “When will they be here?”

  “Four days. I've got meetings all day tomorrow here in the city. We leave for the ranch the next day. I've scheduled the following day to make sure everything's in order there. And the Germans are supposed to arrive the day after.”

  He nodded and looked out the window. Thirty people stood in line outside a bank. Forbidden revolutionary slogans were painted along a stone wall lining the street. Barefoot little boys ran up to the cars stuck in the heavy traffic, trying to sell flowers, newspapers, windshield washes, and bottles of Coca Cola. Ransom knew that anyone buying the latter would be expected to drink it then and there, and to give the bottle back to the vendor before driving off. Bottles were too valuable to give up. The juvenile vendor would use the same bottle again and again, and he certainly wouldn't wash it between sales. As evening fell, prostitutes would join the boys, walking up and down the street in search of business, hustling the cars as well as the pedestrians. Most of them wouldn't even be old enough to be considered women, but grinding poverty had stolen their childhoods long ago.

  “The usual route to the Palace is, uh, much more showy than this,” he said quietly to Madeleine. “Embassies, an old cemetery, that seven million dollar church the last President had built in honor of his mother. Of course, it's never been finished...”